A/N Okay, this one is a COMPLETELY NEW chapter! :o) Hope you enjoy it! ~Kelcor

Chapter 2 - The Flu

APRIL 10TH, 1990

John woke to nothing but complete darkness and the sounds of insects hitting the zapper on the front porch of the house. He had taken the boys to Pastor Jim's a week ago when 7-year-old Sammy came down with a horrible flu bug and staying on the road was just not an option. The fact that Dean had insisted on being the one to take care of his little brother, simultaneously made John's heart swell with pride and break with guilt.

Finally, the noise that had woken him made another appearance - retching. Oh no. Sammy was getting sick again? He had started feeling better the past couple days, his fever had even broken earlier today and he'd been able to keep more than just water down for the first time in a week. John threw back the covers and followed the horrible sound to the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

The door was open but a crack, two small tracks of light visible beneath the door and where door almost met jamb. John heard a whimper but it didn't sound like Sammy… it sounded more like -

He slowly pushed the door open, revealing the hunched and miserable form of an 11-year-old Dean. John rushed forward, placing a calming hand on the quaking back. Except, his hand had the exact opposite effect, causing Dean to jump back against the wall in surprise, which was apparently a bad idea as he lunged forward again almost instantly, clutching the toilet for dear life.

John winced in sympathy as his boy seemed to do his best to extract his toenails up through his body and out his mouth. He began rubbing circles on the shivering shoulders and neck. Seeing that the boy seemed to be done for now, he gently pulled him away from the toilet and leaned him back against the wall.

The t-shirt Dean was wearing clung to his body like a second skin, his short hair was plastered to his scalp. Placing a palm on his boy's forehead, more than a little disconcerted by the heat emanating off him, John gazed worriedly at the pale skin and the dark smudges beneath unfocused eyes. "Hey, Sport? You with me?"

Squinting against the light, Dean looked up at his father, seemingly seeing him for the first time. "D-daddy?"

John's heart stuttered. It had been a long time since he'd heard that word from Dean. "Yeah, Sport, it's me. Whaddya say we get this wet shirt off and clean you up a bit?"

Dean shook his head minutely. "Can't move," he mumbled. "'ll get sick."

"Okay, well, just let me do the work, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, John worked the tee up over Dean's sweat soaked torso. He lifted first Dean's left arm, then his right, pulling each free of the sleeves, before sliding the shirt over his head. The only thing Dean seemed to register was that his bare back was now against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. A small sigh of contentment escaped him.

John pushed his hand through his boy's hair, then stood and grabbed a clean wash cloth from a drawer next to the sink. After soaking it in cool water, he knelt back down next to Dean and worked the cloth over his face, chest and arms, smiling as his boy leaned into the touch, apparently too dazed to offer up any of his typical snarky remarks about personal space and chick flick moments.

The small body tensed suddenly and, knowing what was coming, John grabbed his son by the shoulders and eased him quickly but gently forward again until he was hovering over the porcelain bowl. He wrapped one arm around Dean's waist and used his free hand to cup the small forehead. Dean shook with exertion as the dry heaves assaulted him, was unable to completely hold back the whimper as his now empty stomach cramped as a result.

"Finished?" John asked softly. He released Dean's forehead and gripped his jaw instead, turning him slightly to face him and getting a glimpse of the utter anguish in those green eyes before they were shut, refusing further scrutiny.

Sliding back into typical Dean-mode, the kid nodded in response before pulling away from his father's touch and returning to his position against the wall.

"Be right back, kiddo."

John left the bathroom to get a few things ready. He checked in on Sammy and was happy to see the boy was still fast asleep. He grabbed Dean's pillow from the bed, then the trash can from the floor, the one that had been placed there for Sammy's sake - by Dean, of course - so he wouldn't have to run to the bathroom every time he got sick.

This time, it was Dean's turn to be taken care of, whether he liked it or not. John allowed himself a sad smile because he knew which of those options it would be… and he knew that was all on him.

As an afterthought, John pulled a clean t-shirt out of one of the suitcases. Next, he went into his own room, placed the pillow on the bed and the trash can on the floor at the same side. Normally he would tuck Dean back into the bed he shared with Sammy but he didn't want to risk Sammy getting sick all over again. Besides, Dean was going to be in bad shape over the next several hours and John was pretty sure he wouldn't want his baby brother to see him like that.

Finally, he stepped back into the bathroom. Dean was dozing against the wall, in the exact same position he had been in before John had gone for supplies and preparation. He grabbed the Children's Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet, slipped the bottle into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms, then returned his attention to Dean.

He gently pulled the t-shirt over the boy's head, then eased his arms through the sleeves. When he was done, he wasn't entirely sure that the pink tinge on his son's cheeks was entirely due to the fever coursing through him.

"Okay, c'mon, Sport. Let's get you to bed."

Dean shrugged his father off, curling in on himself. "Can't. Please, don' wanna move anymore, dad. Please?" The small voice broke on that last word, slicing through John's heart in the process.

"You can't stay on the bathroom floor, Dean."

"Why not? 's comfy," Dean mumbled.

Knowing full well that he wasn't going to win this argument, John leaned down, placed his hands beneath Dean's arms and heaved him up, holding him against chest and shoulder. "It's okay, buddy. I gotcha."

"Lemme down," Dean said with what John was sure was supposed to be indignant anger but came out as petulance, instead. Despite his earlier pleas to not move, the kid began to squirm against his dad's hold.

Not wanting Dean to make himself sick again, John whispered, "Shhh, you'll wake Sammy." And, just like that, the fight went out of the 11-year-old because he knew this was the first good night sleep Sammy had been able to have in over a week.

He carried Dean into his own room and laid him down on the king-size bed. As John tucked him under the covers, Dean looked up at him in confusion. John explained, "We don't want Sammy to get sick again, right?" A look flitted across Dean's features so fast that John almost missed it… almost. Aw, crap! "Besides," he quickly added, running a hand through Dean's close-cropped hair, "I want you here so I can keep an eye on you."

The kid didn't look up at him but John felt most of the tension dissipate out of the air as soon as the words left his mouth. He set the Tylenol down on the nightstand, deciding to wait for Dean's stomach to settle a bit more before giving it to him. Then, sighing softly, John settled down on the bed next to Dean. "C'mere, kiddo," he whispered, tugging his boy close to his side until his head was resting on John's shoulder.

"'m not a baby, Dad," Dean muttered, half heartedly trying to pull away from the chick flick moment.

John held tight, though, and Dean finally gave up and all but collapsed with exhaustion against his father's chest. John ran his free hand through his son's hair, before allowing it to rest on the side of his face, stroking his thumb across Dean's temple in gentle, soothing motions. "Try to get some sleep, okay, Sport?"